


A Morsel to Hold on To

by zuotian



Series: Coyote Teeth [4]
Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Character Study, Developing Friendships, F/M, First Kiss, Functional McCormick Family, Hospitals, M/M, Secrets, Teenage Rebellion 101, Underage Smoking, Vandalism, Vaping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23022832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuotian/pseuds/zuotian
Summary: "But you already know that, don’t you,” Cartman mused. “Even more than me.”Karen abandoned her homework and food, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I dunno. I thought I did.”Cartman’s brow slanted. “What? Of course you do.”She looked at him. Really looked at him. He had a square face bordered with flab that framed admittedly attractive features unmitigated by his lack of jaw: a wide mouth, often downturned, which lead to a button nose and hazel cow eyes topped by thick eyebrows and thicker bangs currently plastered by a headband of sweat. There was an inner fortitude behind the physical softness, just like the muscle hidden underneath his fat.He met her study head-on, accustomed to McCormick scrutiny. But was he worth McCormick sacrifice?
Relationships: Eric Cartman & Karen McCormick, Eric Cartman/Kenny McCormick, Karen McCormick/Firkle Smith
Series: Coyote Teeth [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572889
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	A Morsel to Hold on To

**Author's Note:**

> i am soooo stoked to be back in this verse. been working on a few long WIPs that had me burnt out, so i wrote this over the course of a few days and damn does it feel good. 
> 
> i originally had way more in mind for this storyline, but if i continued as is it'd be another 20k monstrosity and i am trying to keep these installments under 12k if i can help it. so, expect a direct sequel of sorts eventully including more karen/firkle and karen and cartman's friendship. 
> 
> the timeline i have for this verse is vague and i'm writing/posting non-linear. hopefully as i post more the bigger picture will fall into place. 
> 
> ps i finally got a new writing program. line breaks should be normal now but i have to manually add italics. also i lost my em dashes. please lmk if you find any formatting errors.

ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FANFICTION—EVEN THOSE BASED ON A REAL SHOW—ARE ENTIRELY GRATUITOUS. ALL CANONICAL DIALOGUE IS IMPERSONATED ... POORLY. THE FOLLOWING FANFICTION CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND DUE TO ITS CONTENT IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE.

Karen became friends with Firkle to stick it to her parents, her brothers, and general society--all of whom she collectively referred to, as she’d heard Cartman say when he decided to drop out of high school, as “the man.” Dark, brooding, and cynical, Firkle magnetized a cluster of chromatically-aligned henchmen Kenny and Kevin would hate to see Karen hang out with. So, after weeks of internal deliberation, she trekked toward the track field’s outer limits and asked to bum a smoke in exchange for her lunch money. Firkle quirked a pierced eyebrow, pocketed her cash, and extended a cigarette. Just to be safe, she palpated the filter, found a menthol capsule and crushed it between her fingers as she’d observed her mother do, then lit the paper casing, coughing only once upon inhalation. 

It was enough to prove her mettle. She hoarded a week’s worth of lunch money and gave it to Firkle, who delivered a pack of his chosen brand, Marlboro Ice, minus two cigarettes the following Monday. “Mule fee,” he explained through the sunlit veil wafting off their cigarettes. “It’s a tough business. You understand, don’t you, Karen?” 

Karen understood perfectly. For two weeks she met him in the same spot, forgoing lunch in favor of an empty stomach and lungful of smoke. Firkle and his friends swapped anti-everything lamentations. When prompted, Karen levied complaints modeled after ideological diatribes Cartman spat at her brothers. She didn’t understand any of the buzzwords she regurgitated, but Firkle nodded with satisfaction in a way that turned her legs to jelly and lessened the rancid burn in her throat. 

She hid the silver-and-green carton in her locker, more willing to hedge her bets with the school administration than her parents. By the time she needed a refill Firkle allowed her to join his crew off school grounds. “Meet us tomorrow at Benny’s,” he said. 

“Benny’s?” Karen asked. “My mom works there. I can’t--” 

“You can do whatever you want,” Firkle interjected, and puffed his cigarette. “Unless you choose to bow to authority.” 

Karen traced the aquiline curve of his nose underlined with sparse facial hair. “I’m not chicken.” 

“Good.” He reached out and plucked the sleeve of her thrifted, pink windbreaker. “Wear something that doesn’t make you look like a bargain bin Barbie doll.” 

That night, she barged into Kenny’s room after supper, which had become a sort of no-siblings-allowed time, the reason illustrated in the way Cartman vaulted off Kenny’s lap and rolled to the carpet. They weren’t _doing_ anything besides playing video games, and the door was left unlocked due to her parents’ demands, but still--

“What the fuck, Karen?” Kenny demanded. 

She bypassed Cartman’s hunched sprawl toward her brother’s closet, easily prying the broken door off its slider hinges. “I need to borrow a sweatshirt.” 

Kenny yanked Cartman back into bed, then hopped to his feet and shouldered around Karen so that she couldn’t see Cartman’s fiery blush. “What for?” 

The television screen reactivated, haloing Kenny in neon light as Cartman remanned his forgotten controller. “Maybe knock, if you could, next time,” he said. 

“It’s my house,” Karen said. “I’ll knock whenever I damn well please!” 

“Don’t get pissed when you inevitably catch a glimpse of my pendulous balls,” Cartman replied, like a true brother. Or step-brother. Brother-in-law. Whatever. 

Kenny grabbed her elbow. “Stop screwing around!” 

She shrugged out of his grip. “I’m not screwing around! I really need to borrow a sweatshirt.” 

Kenny expelled a sigh that puffed his cheeks and rustled his hair. Freshly showered, he’d put on one of Cartman’s t-shirts, his basketball shorts eclipsed by the long hem, giving the impression he wasn’t wearing any pants at all. Which, combined with the hickeys on his exposed clavicle, was totally gross. 

“What happened to your jacket?” 

“I tore the sleeve.”

“Tell Ma. She’ll sew it up.” 

“She’s working. Just lemme borrow one for tomorrow.” 

“Fine, ugh. Whatever’ll get you outta here.” 

Karen plucked a black hoodie before he could choose for her. “Thanks!” 

“Uh--I have a blue one, that might work better--” 

“This one’s fine.” She offered both boys a cheeky wave on her way out the door. “Bye!” 

“And _stay_ out,” Kenny called after her. 

Cartman only laughed. “Bye, Karen.” 

The hoodie was embossed with the name of a band she couldn’t parse; the gnarled tree root logo garnered a lot of odd looks and, more importantly, Firkle’s approval. 

“Cool shirt,” he said as she tromped into Benny’s parking lot. “I didn’t know you listened to them.” 

“Oh, all the time.” 

“What’s your favorite album?” 

Karen gripped the straps of her backpack. “Uh--their first one?” 

Firkle smiled. “No way, mine too.” 

“Really?” 

“Most bands’ first albums are the best. Before the record industry has their way with them.” 

Karen privately concurred that Taylor Swift’s first self-titled release was indeed her favorite. She didn’t want to linger on the topic of music for too long, however, for fear of letting her country penchant slip. “Hope I’m not late.” 

“You’re early, actually.”

“Oh.” Karen glanced around. None of Firkle’s friends were present. It was just them and the asphalt and her mother, having concluded her afternoon shift--“Crap! Shit! Fuck!” 

“What?” Firkle asked. “What is it?” 

Karen huddled into his side, too nervous to revel in their proximity. “It’s my mom! She can’t see me, she’ll freak--” 

Firkle pulled her hood up. “Relax.” 

His hands dropped to her jaw, the same hands she watched gouge manifestos into his desk with the sharpened end of an unfolded paperclip. Peripheral vision blocked by his skin, her hood and hair--she felt like Kenny; had Cartman embraced him in the same manner?--she was unable to see whether her mother had noticed them or not. “But--” 

“Kiss me.” 

Phrased as an offer, Firkle acted like it was a command, diving toward Karen’s parted lips. She clicked her teeth together and puckered her mouth, thrumming everywhere. Ike Broflovski kissed her when they were in third grade. But that didn’t count, not like this. 

She had no idea what to do. Firkle canted her chin up, pressed harder; she opened her mouth. His tongue crawled past her teeth like a slimy something-or-other, flavored with cigarettes and soda. His breath fanned across her cheek, sent shivers down her spine--of trepidation, not anticipation. 

A rinky-dink engine revved. Seconds later, Carol’s clunker sedan lumbered out of the parking lot. Karen elbowed Firkle away. “Okay. She’s gone.” 

Firkle wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. “Doubt she saw you.” 

“I hope not.” Karen swallowed, fighting against the instinct to spit Firkle’s saliva out of her mouth. “What now?” 

He nodded at Benny’s front entrance. “Everybody else can catch up.” 

The hostess didn’t bother asking Firkle if he preferred a booth or table or certain section, instead immediately guiding them to a large crescent booth against the windows. The waitress didn’t bother asking for his order, either. "Usual?” she intoned, to which Firkle nodded. 

She came back with two piping hot mugs of black coffee, no cream. Everything was black and bitter with Firkle: his hair, his clothes, his attitude, his coffee. Karen declined to indulge in the sugar packets beside the ketchup bottle. By the fourth gulp her nose stopped wrinkling in retaliation, though her taste buds hated every second, still reeling from the kiss. 

Firkle talked about the band on her hoodie. A lot. Like, so much that she’d think he was displaying true interest if she didn’t know he considered such passion lame. It was easy to play along. All she had to do was nod and say “uh-huh” every now and then like when her father tried teaching her about football or when Kenny listened to one of Cartman’s rants. The difference between the former was that she was not obligated through familial blood to suffer boredom, and the difference between the latter was that she did not tack on exasperated “babes” to her “uh-huhs,” nor stare at Firkle with fondness despite his senseless meandering. 

She was beginning to second-guess his viability as her anarchist accomplice. He was all bark, no bite, like the scraggly mutts that dogged her heels once she crossed the train tracks on her way home from school. If met with a real alpha male, she suspected he’d faint belly-up. 

“Where is everybody?” she asked. 

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Sometimes they show up, sometimes not. We’re not a _club_.” 

His fingers grazed her thigh under the table. She hid the jolt in her muscles by twisting around on her knees and peering through the window blinds. “It’s getting late,” she said, not wanting to be recognized alone with a boy, lucky enough that the waitresses on duty were younger hires and not her mother’s friends. “When are we getting cigarettes?” 

“Alright, alright. We’ll go.” Firkle thunked his mug hard on the table; Karen finished her coffee to brace her bones for the outside cold. 

They embarked down the sidewalk, their backpacks swishing, their knuckles grazing every third step. She had went without lunch again, saving her money for tonight’s purchase. The coffee sloshed, unabsorbed, with her stomach acid. Vaguely sick, she tugged her hood down to let the breeze cool her face, opening the corner of her eye to Firkle’s backlit profile, his stark cheekbones dusted with eyeliner crumbs. He swiveled his gaze to meet hers. She looked away, blushing. 

“What’s up with your brother?” he asked. 

Karen glanced back at him. “Who, Kenny?” 

“Henrietta and Pete and Michael told me about him.” 

Karen had heard those names many times in the past few weeks. They were Firkle’s senior friends, a connection which he lorded over her and his gang’s eighth-grade heads. It didn’t take much imagination on her part to figure out what they might have told him. She knew school sucked for Kenny, especially without Cartman there to defend his honor anymore. Unobtrusive as he was, he was still weird enough to catch flack. People talked about her, too, and her raggedy appearance and lackluster economic status, but that was all anyone could pin against her, and it wasn’t very original fodder for insults. Kenny, though, with his artsy outlook, hollow swan body, androgynous features, and flaxen princess hair, well. He took abuse painlessly as a shooting target: it went right through him, but left him paper-thin and battered all the same. 

Even if she had half a crush on the kid, Karen would beat Firkle half to death in a second if he said something shitty about her brother. “Told you what? That he’s a queer?”   
  
“Uh, kind of?” Firkle eyed her preemptively clenched fists. “It’s not, like--not like that, Karen, jeeze. I don’t abide by any social constructs, heteronormativity included.” 

Barely following a word, she uncoiled her fingers at his apologetic tone. “What is it, then?” 

“The deal with him and Eric Cartman. He’s living at your house, right? Like, they’re dating?” 

“It’s a long story. I don’t know what happened.” 

Firkle watched a car whiz by. “There’s a rumor going around that Kenny fucked somebody up for him.” 

Karen halted. Firkle didn’t notice until the car’s exhaust had long since dissipated. He doubled back, brow pinched beneath his flat-ironed bangs. 

“You’re lying. Whoever told you that’s a dirty liar--” 

“It’s just a rumor. I didn’t know if you heard or not--” 

“I didn’t hear a fuckin’ thing--” 

“That’s why I asked! So you’d hear from me.” 

Karen crossed her arms. “Well, it’s not true. My brother wouldn’t _do_ something like that.” And he wouldn’t, she told herself. No, not the boy who let her braid his hair, gave her his plate of dinner when food was scarce, painted flowers on her bedroom wall, and whispered sweet things into Cartman’s ear when he thought nobody could hear. But she _had_ heard, and she _had_ seen, and she _knew_ that Kenny wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone a human being. “He wouldn’t,” she insisted. 

Frirkle raised his hands. “Okay, I believe you. I didn’t mean to piss you off. I’m sorry.” 

Karen glared at the cement beneath their feet. Firkle’s Doc Martens butted up against her molted sneakers. His fingers slipped under her hair, ice cold, his nails painted black. 

The coffee had eviscerated the smoke and soda taste in his mouth. It wasn’t any more palatable, but it was preferable--digestible enough for her to tilt her lips up to meet his and tentatively prod his teeth with her tongue. His fingers tightened around her neck in a supportive chokehold. She grasped the front of his velvety pea-coat for leverage, lifted on her tip-toes, forced his head backward, taking control--

He parted, pupils blown wide. “Whoa, Karen--” 

She let go. Another car passed, stirring her hair. She tucked it into her hood. “I’ll forget what you said about Kenny.” 

“Deal,” Firkle agreed. 

They ambled onward, circumventing gravelly side streets by way of empty fields, the ground wet and gooey like exposed muscle shorn of its snowy skin. The orange sky sank, pressurized under a purple band tented by telephone lines and far-off transmission towers. 

It was a pretty night. In the sticks back home the mountains and pine trees crowded everything. But the town sat in a bulldozed basin, an alms bowl for the heavens. All Karen wanted was a morsel to hold on to. 

Firkle kept quiet. Karen nearly forgot about him until he announced they’d arrived at their destination. The sounds and lights of Main Street trickled into her perception, blotted out the sky. They stood on the corner of South Park’s business district, parallel to a smoke shop neighbored by a bustling McDonald’s.

Karen surrendered her lunch money. “Wait here,” Firkle said. His lanky, vampiric form weaved between stalled cars, his billowing pea-coat highlighted by the red stoplight. 

The light switched green as the smoke shop’s door clanged shut. Karen leaned against the street sign at her left and scanned the rest of the avenue packed with the five ‘o clock exodus, people going home to their nuclear families and hot suppers. Meanwhile, Carol was about to walk into an empty house and nuke a cold turkey sandwich. Stuart was down at the factory; Kevin had enlisted Kenny into helping him roof a house; and Cartman was--

Across the street. That squat, wide blob of flesh was unmistakable. Thankful for her dark attire, Karen openly observed him wedge a flattened cardboard box into a heavy side door. Dressed in a mottled gray uniform, his bangs peeking out from under a flimsy billed cap too small for his big head, he ferried two wheeled trash cans across the parking lot and disappeared into a fenced corral. 

Firkle poured back onto the sidewalk and beckoned for Karen to cross the street. The light bled red again. She marched past the waiting cars. 

“Here.” Firkle thrust her cigarettes into her hand. She tore the plastic wrapping and flipped the lid. “Don’t worry about the fee,” he added, already lighting up. His cheeks hallowed, gaunt, gargoyle-esque. “Michael’s working tonight.” 

Karen plucked the lighter from his long fingers and lit her own cigarette. Her eyes watered only a little bit; she held the smoke in her mouth and looked through the smoke shop’s window, the glass pane papered with endless adverts. “How’d you buy ‘em before?” 

“I can’t reveal that,” Firkle said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t need to hang out with me.” 

She swirled on her heels, perturbed by the genuine sentiment, unsure whether he was being honest or not; he was the type of person where you either took everything he said literally, or none of it. “We should do something.” 

He jogged to match her pace. “Uh, like what?” 

“I dunno.” She almost asked if his idea of rebellion wasn’t anything but walking around town smoking cigarettes. The answer was obviously yes. “We should stick it to the man.” 

“Stick it to the man? How?” 

She pivoted into the McDonald’s parking lot. “Like, throw a brick through a window.” 

“With what brick? And what _window_?” 

“Any brick. Any window.” 

Firkle flicked his cigarette. “Sounds trashy.” 

Karen narrowed her eyes. “Are you really an anarchist?” 

“I’m a nihilist.” 

“I know a _real_ anarchist.” 

“Who?” 

The sound of trash bags thunking into a metal dumpster echoed down the lot. Karen smirked and picked up a discarded beer bottle. Thank God for South Park. “Cartman.” 

Firkle frowned. “What are you doing?” 

Karen played softball one miserable summer when she was ten years old. After losing her brothers to riffraff and tomfoolery, her parents scraped enough dough to enroll her into the park’s recreational league, thinking it’d keep her straight. She’d never get that summer back, but it did give her a good pitch.

She chucked the bottle underhand. It smashed into the corral. A thousand shards of glass glittered and rained across the cement. 

“Jesus fucking hell!” 

The corral screeched open. Firkle scampered backward; Karen stood firm and took a drag off her cigarette. 

Cartman lumbered straight for Firkle. The boy. Go figure. “What the fuck, you fucking _punk_!”

Firkle dropped his cigarette in his haste to implicate Karen. “It wasn’t me! It was _her_!” 

Cartman whirled. “Who the hell are you--” His anger evaporated to surprise. “ _Karen_?” 

She waved. “Hey, Cartman.” 

His face scrunched with renewed rage. “What the fuck are you _doing_?” 

“Sticking it to the man.” 

“Oh, really!” He stomped forward and slapped the cigarette out of her hand. “Breaking shit and smoking cigarettes, that’ll really show ‘em!” He gesticulated in Firkle’s direction. “And why’re you commiserating with _this_ clown?” 

“We’re just hanging out,” Firkle said. 

“Get lost, Edgar Allen Dick Weasel!” 

“Don’t listen to him, Firkle!” 

“Look,” he said, stumbling away from both of them, “I’m not getting caught up in this. I’ll see you later, Karen.” 

She stuck her middle finger at his retreating back. “Conformist!” 

Cartman wrenched her around to face him. “ _You’re_ the conformist!” 

Karen smacked his arm. “Don’t touch me! You aren’t my _brother_!” 

Her protest only caused him to attack her from a new angle. He tore her hood off her head. “What’s up with this getup? You look like Kenny, for Christ’s sake.” 

“Good! We’re related!” 

“Not good! Kenny’s an ugly, rat-faced, vagrant piece of shit!” Cartman scraped his mouth, pinching his bottom lip. “Oh, fuck. If he finds out about this...” 

Karen’s stomach swooped. “You won’t tell him, will you?” 

Cartman dropped his hand, palm up. “I just might, if you don’t give me the rest. I know you got ‘em.” 

Karen scowled, rifled her hoodie pocket, and slapped the pack of Marlboros into his palm. “There.” 

Cartman promptly crushed them under his heel. “You fucking _bitch_. I’m already breaking my back trying to keep _Kenny_ from getting hooked on these, and now _you._ Do you have any idea what the tobacco industry’s done to brainwash people--” 

Karen spotted the oblong prism bulging out of his pocket. “Well, what’s _that_?” 

He rolled his eyes and wiggled the small vape pen under her nose. “It’s zero nic, asshole. I use it as an excuse to come out here and get a few minutes of _peace_ , which you just _interrupted_.” 

“Vaping’s gay,” Karen said. “It makes you a pussy.” 

“Well, sweetheart, sometimes you have to pussy up to get a break in life,” Cartman said and jammed the vape into his mouth. 

Karen clawed at the minty cloud swarming her vision. “Fuck off!”

He clasped her wrist. “Nope! You’re coming with me.” 

She struggled against his mammoth grip across the parking lot--he was _strong_ under all his fat. “Get offa me!” 

“Okay, fine!” Cartman released her and pulled out his phone. “Lemme just call Kenny, then--” 

“Don’t!” 

He spammed another cloud. “I’m either telling Kenny about this, or you’re going inside. What’s it gonna be?” 

“I hate you,” Karen sneered. 

“I don’t care,” Cartman volleyed. “Nobody’ll know a thing if you be a good little girl.” 

She punched the door open and plopped into the outer edge of a long bench punctuated by four-top tables bisecting the cash registers from the rest of the floor. “Don’tcha have _work_ to do?” 

“Don’tcha have _homework_?” Cartman shot back, standing over her. “C’mon, get your shit out.” 

She shed her backpack and slammed her textbooks on the table, sending a gaggle of nearby retirees into an affronted titter. 

“I’ll be right back,” Cartman said. “I got break, soon, anyway. You’re lucky.” 

“Whatever,” Karen snapped, feeling anything but. 

He returned shortly, toting two large cups. “Watcha want?” 

“Nothing. Leave me alone.” 

“Coke? Hi-C? Lemonade?” 

“Sprite.” 

“Of modest tastes,” Cartman commended. “We got some new flavor, I dunno. Tropical. It’s pretty good, honestly.” 

“I guess I’ll try some,” Karen mumbled. 

He jetted off to the soda fountain, then deposited her Sprite beside his own Coke. “What else?” 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“Sure you are.” 

Karen peeked at the dollar menu displayed above idle, pimply cashiers. “Four piece chicken nuggets.” 

Cartman sidled into line. “Ten piece with a large fry, got it.” 

She twisted around. “What? No!” 

“It’s half off, it’s fine. What sauce?” 

“Barbecue,” she relented. “And ranch.” 

“Cool. Do your homework.” 

It took him ten minutes to receive his managerially-approved discounted order. Karen jolted away from her algebra textbook as he shoved the neighboring table against hers and plopped into a chair opposite of the bench. 

Her stomach rumbled when he placed her tray in front of her. “I thought you weren’t hungry,” he smirked.

She opened the cardboard box of nuggets and its accompanying sauces. “Fuck off.” 

Cartman ripped into his own Double Quarter Pounder, extra everything. He ate worse than Kevin and Kenny. Karen thought that, if pressed, he could finish the sandwich in three bites, max. 

He chased the mouthful with a swig of Coke followed by an unashamed burp. “Y’know, they say you shouldn’t work at your favorite restaurants, ‘cause you see all the gross shit that goes down. But, man.” He smiled at his food like he smiled at Kenny. “They could pump this crap full of human feces and I’d still eat it.” 

Karen chewed on her second nugget, pacing herself. She didn’t want Cartman catching on to the fact that she hadn’t ate anything all day. “You’re gross.” 

Cartman licked a glob of mayonnaise off his thumb. “Have you _seen_ your brothers?” 

“Shut up, _Eric_.” 

“Oooh, you called me by my first name. I’m rankled. Y’got me, Karen.” 

Having no clue what rankled meant, she bent over her algebra textbook. “Quit talking.” 

“How’s it going?” he asked, relentlessness. “Whatcha learning?” 

She heaved a belabored sigh. “Factoring.” 

“So, nothing too difficult yet?” Her blush betrayed otherwise. Cartman lowered his burger. “Karen.” 

“ _What_?” 

“Y’want my help? I’m good at math. I promise. Ask Kenny.” 

“I don’t want anybody’s help. Especially yours.” 

He twisted his hat backwards in an Ash Ketchum maneuver and plunked his forearms on her table, leaning toward her at a wide diagonal. “What’s your problem with me, huh? What’d I ever do to you, besides sleep on your couch?”

“You _banged_ my _brother_.” 

Cartman scoffed. “You, too? Jesus. Kevin already gave me that whole rigamarole. I’ll tell you the same thing I told him.” He waited till she made eye contact, serious, for once. “Kenny and I haven’t had sex.” 

Her grip on her pencil loosened. “Oh.” 

“Yeah, _oh_. Oh, Eric, you aren’t the sleazeball I thought you were. He hasn’t even _seen_ my penis.” 

Karen focused back on the equations below her. “I don’t need to know _that_!” 

“You knew _exactly_ what you were implying. You might have everybody else fooled, but not me! You aren’t the innocent angel people think you are, smashing bottles and smoking cigarettes.” 

Karen lifted her head. “What do you think I am?” 

“A person deserving my honesty, if you can handle it,” Cartman said. 

“I can,” she promised, straightening her shoulders, then immediately drooped, reprimanding herself for the childish posturing. “Have you seen _Kenny’s_ penis?” 

“I’ve become acquainted. But it’s not, like, why I’m with him.” 

“Why are you with him, then?”

“‘Cause he’s awesome. No question. You should ask _him_ why he’s with _me_ , ‘cause I still don’t understand that part.” Cartman reclined, the sudden disclosure requiring a spatial buffer. His cheek bulged as he dug between his teeth with his tongue. “Ken’s the nicest guy I’ve ever met. Probably the nicest guy on the planet.” 

Karen had never heard Cartman call Kenny _Ken_ before. But, then again, she’d never discussed the subject of her brother with him directly. She and Kevin only called him Kenny; sometimes, her parents called him Kenneth. It made her jealous that Cartman lobbed his name in half, like he had a special privilege she wasn’t privy to. If that’s what it meant to be rankled, she was rankled. 

“But you already know that, don’t you,” Cartman mused. “Even more than me.” 

Karen abandoned her homework and food, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I dunno. I thought I did.” 

Cartman’s brow slanted. “What? Of course you do.” 

She looked at him. Really looked at him. He had a square face bordered with flab that framed admittedly attractive features unmitigated by his lack of jaw: a wide mouth, often downturned, which lead to a button nose and hazel cow eyes topped by thick eyebrows and thicker bangs currently plastered by a headband of sweat. There was an inner fortitude behind the physical softness, just like the muscle hidden underneath his fat. 

He met her study head-on, accustomed to McCormick scrutiny. But was he worth McCormick sacrifice?

His phone rang. The moment shattered like the beer bottle in the parking lot. Karen’s hands itched to destroy something. She tore her straw wrapper into pieces as Cartman answered.

“Ken?” His tone sharpened. “Oh, shit--Kevin?” 

Karen scattered the paper across her textbook. “What is it?” 

Cartman didn’t hear. “What happened?” 

His face lost its color; Karen lost her grudge. “Eric? What’s wrong?” 

He canted his legs askew, half out of his seat. “Why wasn’t I notified beforehand? Why the fuck am I just now being informed?” 

Karen slapped the table. “Cartman!” 

“Okay, okay, okay. I’ll, uh--” He glanced at Karen, wide-eyed. “Tell your mom I’ll find Karen and we’ll head over. Okay, bye.” His phone fell out of his hand and clattered on the table. “So, uh--Kenny’s at the hospital.” 

Karen inhaled a staccato breath. “What?” 

“Fucking klutz,” Cartman muttered to himself. He swept his hat off, scrubbed his sweaty brow with his wrist, hair sticking all over the place in feathery chunks. “He fell off the goddamn roof. I _told_ Kevin it was a bad idea. The dude can’t take two steps without twisting his ankle!” 

“Is he okay? He didn’t, like--break his _spine_? Oh, God, is he _paralyzed_ \--” 

Cartman tempered his voice, wringing his hat in his hands. “No, but, uh--I guess he clipped some gutters, or something--” He drew a long line from his elbow to his palm. “Flayed his fucking vein.” 

Karen had started packing up while he spoke. Presently, she swung her backpack over her shoulders and stacked their trays together. By the looks of him, Cartman had little of an appetite as her. “Let’s go.” 

“Alright. One sec.” She disposed of their food as he lumbered to the pickup counter. “Hey, Barbara!” 

A female manager poked out from behind the grill. “You’re five minutes late from break, Eric.” 

“Not my problem.” Cartman yeeted his hat to the floor. “Because I quit!” 

Karen clapped her palm over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Cartman winked. 

Barbara stomped into view, wielding a spatula. “Excuse me?” 

“I quit,” Cartman repeated. “You’re all a bunch of fucking assholes! I hate every one of you!” He pointed at an apathetic cashier. “Besides you! You’re cool, Steve!” 

Steve scratched his acne-laden chin. “Uh, thanks?” 

“You’re better than this place, Stevie-boy. You’re gonna go far in life, you hear me? Don’t let the bastards get you down!” 

“Okay,” Steve said. 

Cartman reoriented his finger onto Barbara. “And you! I’ve been eating chicken nuggets every goddamn day since I started! I am the nugget bandit, you can put it in the history books! And when you’re on your deathbed, I will be there, ensuring that the last thing you witness on this earthly plane is a chicken nugget entering my gaping maw!” 

Barbara trembled head to toe, one second from slicing his jugular with her spatula. “Get. Out.”

“Gladly shall I vacate this hellish premises, never to return lest I am safely ensconced in my automobile,” Cartman concluded with fanfare and a dramatic bow. He then pivoted in a glorious arc, strode toward Karen in slow-motion, and pushed her outside. 

“Holy shit,” she exclaimed. “That was--” 

“Amazing, yes, I know. Hold your applause.” 

His hand solidified around the nape of her neck. The sky was completely purple now, beaten and bruised. Karen could barely discern Cartman through the dark when she looked up at him, his head silhouetted by the golden arches looming above. “Is Kenny gonna be okay?” 

He dug into his pocket and retrieved a set of two keys; one for the truck Kevin helped him fix into operation, and one to her house. Their house. Whatever. “He just got stitches, is all. Twelve.” 

Karen had never been grievously injured--Kenny, and to a lesser extent Kevin, won that particular achievement--but she knew twelve stitches was probably a lot. Maybe too many. “That sounds bad.” 

“Oh, you know him,” Cartman dismissed. Karen didn’t mention the warble in his voice, nor the lingering doubt that she didn’t know Kenny at all. “He can walk off anything.” 

Still, he quickened his steps toward his truck. Purchased from one of Kevin’s buddies, or, as Kenny conspired, won in a late night poker game, it wore every one of its approximately two-hundred thousand miles. Karen carefully crawled into the passenger side so as to not collapse its precarious parts jury-rigged together with grease and Kevin’s motorhead know-how. Cartman sidled behind the wheel with less care. The entire cabin slumped under his weight--he’d lost some in the couple months since he living with her family, but her one-hundred-two pounds against his two-hundred-something was equivalent to scaling a feather against a brick. 

They wordlessly trundled down Main Street. A coyote tooth hung off the rearview mirror in place of a crucifix, jangling with every bump in the road. Karen tucked her arm into a V, her elbow braced on the windowsill, and watched the businessfronts roll into quaint two-story houses too pretty to be real. Beside her, Cartman puffed his zero nic vape. 

She realized how much time had passed once the window was fogged by a spearmint glaze. “Aren’t we going to the hospital?” 

“We’re gonna drive around a bit.” Cartman dropped his vape into a cup holder, tapped the turn signal, and swung a lazy left. “I’m supposed to be looking for you, you know. Your mom’s worried sick according to Kevin.” 

Karen gnawed at a scale of chapped skin on her lip. “She mad?” 

“Probably. Thank God Kenny nearly killed himself, otherwise she’d be out to kill _you_.” The leather lining his seat creaked as he sprawled, forcibly lackadaisical. “I mean, shit, Karen. The hell were you thinking, just going out like that, not telling anybody? You could’ve at least come up with a lie.” 

“My brothers do shit all the time and don’t tell nobody.” 

“Yeah, well, your brothers are also bona fide morons. You, though.” Cartman sought her out in the dark. “You got something they don’t.” 

She lifted an eyebrow. “What’s that?” 

“You’re smart, for one.” 

Karen huddled back against the window. “No I ain’t. I can’t barely do algebra.” 

“I don’t mean factoring, fool. I mean you’ve got your wits about you. You aren’t a moron. You could become somebody. Somebody more than anyone in your family’ll ever be.” 

“Maybe I wanna be a moron. Maybe I don’t wanna be somebody.” 

“Tough shit. Some people are born great. Some people have greatness thrust upon them. And some people, like yourself, are born into crap, but are meant to be great. And, yeah, it sucks. But you owe it to yourself to follow your destiny.” 

“The way you talk gives me a headache,” Karen sniffed. “When I talk to you I feel like I’m reading a book.” 

“I take that as a compliment,” Cartman said. “I can’t help that I’ve got stupendous diction and an iron-fisted grip on the English language. I’m a natural orator.” 

She uncurled from the door to peer at him. “What about you? You’re pretty smart. And I dunno what all went down with your mom and everything, but I know it wasn’t any good. Doesn’t that make you same as me?” 

“I might be projecting,” Cartman admitted. 

Karen hummed. “Can I ask you something?” 

He sent her another razor-sharp stare. “You can ask me anything, Karen. And I’ll always tell you the truth. But it’s not my fault if you don’t like the answer.”   
  
She cocked her head. “Why’d you drop out?” 

He looked back at the road. “I never liked school. If I wanted, I could’ve become valedictorian, lemme tell you. I mean, I got my GED in five minutes. But it’s all a game. Not that _life_ isn’t a game. But I make my own rules, now. I don’t play by the establishment’s rules.” 

“I don’t like school. Maybe I’ll drop out, too.” 

Cartman sighed. “Tthat’s not what I meant. I’m not _endorsing_ my decision. I’m just telling you my reasoning.” 

She crossed her arms. “Well, I’ve got the same reasons.” 

The neighborhoods abruptly gave way to a northbound backroad. Cartman braked at its four-way intersection, chaperoned by a red light strung on wire. Town glittered to the east and west. Behind them, all the two-story homes lined up like a row of dollhouses in a toy store aisle. Miles opposite, train tracks delineated the sticks; here, the brief suggestion of fresh-paved highways outlined the mountains. 

Karen followed the distant cars, small as Hot Wheels. “Kenny doesn’t like school. Why didn’t he drop out?” 

“Remember what I said about pussying up to get a break in life?” Cartman asked. 

Karen turned. “Why can’t you? You think you’re better than him?” 

“Fuck, no.” Cartman drummed his fingers on the wheel, palpating his jaw with his other hand. “I took the easy way out. I couldn’t pussy up. Sometimes, that makes you the bigger pussy.” 

Karen squinted at him. “I don’t think you’re a pussy.” 

“Because you’re too young to understand. I’m not saying that to be mean, or be like Kevin, or your parents. It’s just the truth.” 

She looked back toward the scurrying cars. 

He followed her gaze. “You wanna get outta here, don’t you?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Then stay in school. Go to college. That’s the only way for somebody like you. And you’re poor enough to get grants. Kevin dropped out, and look at him--he’ll be here for the rest of his life.”

“What about you? Don’t you want out?” 

The light doused them both in green. 

Cartman didn’t move. “I’m going where Kenny goes. I’m riding his pussy long as he’ll let me.”

He spoke like he was telling a secret. Karen blinked. “Really?” 

The truck panted, too old to tread for much longer. Cartman dropped his hand from his jaw and pressed onward through the intersection. “Really. Don’t tell anybody I said that, though.” 

She shook her head. “I won’t.” 

“The thing with me and Ken, he doesn’t get still,” Cartman continued, perhaps unable to stop now that he’d started. “Maybe you will, intelligent as you are.” 

“I’ll try,” Karen said. 

“I don’t do well on my own. I get tunnel vision. Kenny helps me remember the bigger picture. He sees things different than the rest of us. Put a box in front of him, he’ll tell you it’s a sphere--and he’ll describe it a way that makes you think maybe it’s been a sphere all along and you just didn’t know it.” Cartman scraped his bangs off his forehead, mussing them further. “Does that make sense?” 

Karen nodded. “I think so.” 

“The problem is he’s an idealist,” Cartman went on. “He’s got this north star he chases. So I chase after him, keep him on track. It’s always been that way between us.” His lips pursed. “Sounds kind of gay, now that I’ve said it out loud.” 

“Kind of,” Karen concurred. “Not in a bad way, though.” 

Cartman shrugged. “He’s my one-way ticket. It’s him or bust.” 

She smiled. “So, what? You wanna _marry_ him?” 

“Oh, Christ--” He picked up his vape and spun a cloud to censor his unspoken confession. “Don’t bust my balls, Karen.” 

Karen left him alone. She got her fill out of the transaction. It wasn’t direct from the source, but ancillary lore about Kenny was better than none at all, and she was forced to regard Cartman as an expert on the subject. In a sense, what he’d told her was more accurate than anything her brother would’ve shared. Kenny didn’t talk to her like Cartman talked to her. Nobody did, for that matter. 

They spent the remainder of the ride in silence, until passing a sign that read _Hell’s Pass next right_.

“What’s your cover story?” Cartman asked. 

Karen ceased tying her hoodie strings into bows. “Huh?” 

“Your cover. For your mom.” 

“Oh, um...” 

He rolled his eyes. “If you’re set on being a delinquent, you gotta start considering these things.” 

The hospital emerged through the pines, an antediluvian block of cement inviting as its namesake. Cartman parked beneath a floodlight separated from the other cars. His truck heaved, exhausted, as he killed the ignition. 

Karen unlocked her seatbelt and fingered the cool metal of her door handle. Cartman stilled her by her shoulder. “Slow down, sister.” 

She bucked him off. “What’s the hold up?” 

“Ken isn’t _dying_. Relax.” He diverted across her lap, opened the glovebox, and righted with a bottle of what appeared to be cologne. “You reek of cigarettes, and I smell like a grease trap, so.” He spritzed them both with peppery fragrance. “There.” 

Karen grimaced. “Okay, fine, now can we go?” 

Cartman twisted in his seat to face her. The floodlight brought out the sweat on his skin and flecks of emerald and gold in his eyes. “What’re we telling your mom when we get inside?” 

“We,” Karen echoed, subconsciously. 

“Yes, _we_ ,” Cartman said, gesturing between them. “I was supposed to find you someplace, right? I could come up with a three-act narrative in two seconds, but I won’t. This is a good learning experience for you. It’s a valuable life skill, lying to your parents.” 

Karen tapped her knees. “Okay, uh... I stayed late at school?” 

“Why? Didja get in trouble?” 

“No. I was studying in the library.” 

“Studying? Please. It’s gotta be _believable_.” 

“I was using the school computers to watch Youtube,” she rectified. “Lost track of time. I was on my way home when you picked me up.” 

“It’ll do. Your parents are boomer enough they’ll buy it.” Cartman swiped his phone off the dashboard and stuck it in his pocket, then paused. “Hey, where’s your phone? I bet she’s called you a ton.” 

Karen opened the front pocket of her backpack and showed him her janky flip-phone; her parents had told her if she wanted anything fancier she’d have to pay for it herself. “I turned it off.” 

“Okay, well, shit. Those batteries last for years, we can’t say it’s dead.” He took it out of her hand and put it in the glovebox with the cologne. “There. You forgot it at home.” 

She popped her door, dangled one sneaker down toward the ground. “ _Now_ can we go?” 

They marched inside, shoulder-to-shoulder. Cartman edged closer Karen’s side the deeper they traversed, eying the white walls and limpid, pastel decor with distaste. “I fucking hate hospitals,” he grumbled under his breath. 

Karen patted his arm, thick as a log and soft as a teddy bear; he was a pillowcase full of nails. “Me too.” 

“All these sick people dying, and the asshole doctors, and the friggin _smell_ \--” 

Her hand slid into his on its own accord. He looked down at her. She looked up at him. “It’ll be okay, Eric.” 

He offered a lackluster grin. “If you say so, Karen.” 

His mood changed once they made it to the emergency room. Rough and tough, he lumbered toward the reception desk, tugging Karen along with him, and smacked his free hand on the counter. 

“Kenny McCormick!” 

The receptionist snapped a wad of gum between her teeth, unimpressed. “Excuse me?” 

“Kenny McCormick,” Cartman said. “I’m his boyfriend. This is his kid sister.” He raised Karen’s hand, like she’d won a WWE match. “He came in about an hour ago, bleeding to death--” 

The receptionist appraised Karen’s reedy McCormick frame and blond-to-mousy hair. “You’re his sister?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Karen said. 

“You can go.” The receptionist swept her pen in the direction of a wide hallway, then gestured at Cartman. “You’ll have to wait out here. Family only.” 

“Bullshit!” 

“It’s policy, sir--” 

“Policy my ass!” 

Karen smacked her hand next to Cartman’s. “He _is_ family!” 

Cartman whirled. “Karen, what--” 

A dog whistle shot down the hall like an arrow. Kevin ambled into the waiting room, thick kneepads strapped to his jeans, sandy hair secured by a red bandanna, unbuttoned flannel parted to reveal a t-shirt speckled in blood. “Thought I heard y’all yelling.” 

“This bitch won’t let me in,” Cartman informed. 

The receptionist glared. “Sir, if you don’t stop causing a scene I’m going to have to call security.” 

“Whoa!” Kevin plopped his arms around Cartman’s shoulders. “No scene here, ma’am. You got yourself confused. This here is my _cousin_ , twice-removed--” 

“Kevin, you idiot! I already said I’m Kenny’s boyfriend!” 

“Well, fuck--” 

Karen fingered the hem of his t-shirt. “Is that _Kenny’s_ blood?”

Kevin gently disengaged her hand and slung their fingers together. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.” 

Cartman scoffed. “She’s fourteen, Kevin, she can take it.” 

“Take what?” Karen asked. 

“Nothing,” Kevin said. 

“He tore open a _vein_ ,” Cartman said. “Of course his blood’s everywhere! He’s lucky he didn’t have to get a transfusion!” 

Karen clutched Kevin’s calloused fingers. “I wanna see him.” 

“Yeah, well, so do I!” Cartman pivoted out from under Kevin’s arm. “Just go. I’ll fucking wait out here.” 

Kevin wrangled him back to his side. “Shut up, man. No you ain’t.” 

The receptionist rose from her chair. “All of you move along. Now.” 

Kevin leaned over the counter and deployed his tackiest smile. “What’ll it take, huh? Pretty please, with a cherry on top? Or maybe me, on top of _your_ cherry, how ‘bout?” 

“That’s it! You’re all outta here.” The receptionist wielded her telephone. “Yes, hello. I’ve got three people in ER refusing to leave--” 

Kevin let go of Karen’s hand and thumbed the switch in the receiver cradle. The receptionist lowered the phone, looking like she was about to jump across the counter and throw him out herself. 

“Listen, we don’t wanna cause no trouble,” he said. “But, after all that, I think my brother deserves to see his boyfriend. Ten minutes. Five minutes. Thirty seconds. I’ll keep time. Just, please--c’mon, look at him. He’s desperate.” 

He nodded at Cartman, who didn’t have to ham any performance, already alternating between white anxiety and red-hot rage, Kevin’s grip the only thing keeping him from falling apart and/or wrecking havoc. 

“He’s family,” Karen said again. This time, Kevin whirled, his hand going slack around hers in surprise. “We’re Kenny’s family, and we say he’s family, so that makes him Kenny’s family.” She stepped away, pulling Kevin, and by extension Cartman, with her, forming a three-car Fisher Price train connected by string. “We’re going now, okay? No trouble.” 

The receptionist didn’t protest, at this point happy just to get them out of her face. They rounded the corner unimpeded, then broke apart. 

Kevin ruffled Karen’s hair. “Holy shit, sis!” 

“Nice save,” Cartman added, walking ahead a couple impatient paces. “Brought us back from Kevin’s stupid seduction--” 

“Hey, that is a tried and true method. Works, like, sixty percent of the time--” 

Cartman glanced over his shoulder. “Where’s Ken?” 

Kevin pushed Karen forward; she matched Cartman’s gait mid-stumble, looked behind at her eldest brother who stood still watching them both, some unnameable emotion writ across his features. “Room four. I’m gonna find Ma and the doc.” 

He disappeared in a flourish of denim and flannel, whistling a low tune. Karen looked ahead and read the numbered signs. Eight, seven, six, five--

Cartman cut in front of her and damn near kicked the door down. They spilled into the small room sparsely furnished by a single cot Kenny reclined upon, tracing ethereal constellations in the ceiling tiles. 

His eyes, eerily diluted, snapped down at their clamorous arrival, and his mouth spread in a loony grin. “Hey, guys--” He wiggled upward, favoring his right hand, his left forearm swaddled in a sleeve of tight bandages; the cot’s butcher paper crinkled under his palm as he pinwheeled, unsteady. “Whoa, haha--” 

“Ken,” Cartman breathed, a curse and prayer all in one. He crossed the room and guided Kenny flat on his back, taking in the ghostly pallor of Kenny’s skin which Karen observed from afar. “I’m gonna _kill_ Kevin.” 

Kenny giggled. “Aw, it wasn’t his fault. I just had a little tumble. Whoops!” 

Cartman retrieved a wheeled stool Karen was pretty sure only meant for doctors and curled around Kenny, blocking all but his long legs and bony elbow and open, exclusive expression from her view. 

Kenny didn’t seem to notice her; his eyelids fluttered shut as Cartman commenced untangling the knots in his hair. “Eric.” 

“What, Ken?” 

“I missed you.” 

Cartman smiled--an honest smile with all his teeth that made his chipmunk cheeks dimple. “I missed you too.” 

Kenny angled his head till he’d lassoed Cartman’s hand to his jaw. “C’mere.” 

“I’m here,” Cartman whispered. 

Karen thought she should probably leave, let them have their moment, but curiosity rooted her sneakers to the floor. Heat rushed up her limbs into the back of her throat, the taste of Firkle’s spit reactivated by the sight of Cartman dipping down and pressing his mouth to Kenny’s--warm, easy, natural, like nobody was looking. He didn’t often indulge in PDA; Karen didn’t know whether she should be complimented or offended that he’d do so now in her presence. 

Kenny oozed under the touch of Cartman’s lips. Cartman remained an inch apart. His hand drifted down Kenny’s right arm, hovering above the crook of his elbow pricked with an IV. “They got you on meds?” 

Kenny scowled at the tube snaking up over his shoulder. “I tried telling ‘em I didn’t need it. I wasn’t hurting none.” 

“Of course not. I bet you’d barely register an _amputation_.” 

“I was kind of fucked up, though, to be honest,” Kenny admitted. Cartman lifted a flyaway hair off his eyes. They regained color, blue as the sky after the clouds parted, only to be curtained by his tawny lashes as he looked down at the IV needle. “Kevin had to carry me to the truck.” 

Karen aborted a forward step. The boys turned at the sound of her soles squeaking on the tile. 

“Karen,” Kenny said. 

She launched at his uninjured side and shoved her nose into his chest, using the square base of the cot as a foothold. “Kenny--” 

He dropped his lips on the crown of her head, unable to return her hug. “I’m okay. I’m alright, I promise.” 

She pressed closer into his t-shirt, hoping it would suffocate her burgeoning tears. “I was _worried_ about you!” 

“Hey, look at me.” She lifted her head. Kenny grinned down at her, the yellow hue of his teeth extrapolated by his pale skin. “It’s all good.” 

“Long as you don’t ever go roofing again,” Cartman said. “I don’t know what Kevin was thinking.” 

Kenny sent him a half-lidded side-eye. “One of his friends flaked, so he asked me for help. He probably woulda got a lot more done if he just did it by himself.” 

Karen laughed, struggling to picture Kenny efficiently roofing a house; her imagination ended same as reality, with him floundering into an cartoonish blunder sans all the blood. 

Incidentally, the heavy scent of iron filled her nose. She leaned back and examined his t-shirt stained in swathes of red. “Holy shit! You look like you _murdered_ somebody!” 

He winced. “Don’t say that--” 

Cartman jettisoned off the stool. “I oughta go find out what’s taking Kevin so long.” 

“What? No!” Kenny scrambled upward and reached out with his bandaged arm. His shoulder spasmed; he choked on a pained cry. “Cartman, dude, please.” 

Karen chewed her lip. “I didn’t mean it, Eric.” 

Cartman paused halfway to the door. “I know you didn’t, Karen.” He gave Kenny a stern, complicated stare, then left. 

Kenny’s arm flopped into his lap. “Fuck.” 

Now that Karen had him to herself she wished Cartman would come back, the air charged with his absence. “I’m sorry.” 

Kenny blinked. “No, Karen--” He grabbed her hand. “It’s not your fault.” 

Her fingernails grazed the edge of his bandages. “What’d I say?” 

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” 

She slipped down to the floor. “Everybody keeps telling me that. I don’t even know what I’m not supposed to be worried about.” 

Kenny hunched inward. “You wouldn’t understand.” 

Karen grit her teeth. “Everybody keeps telling me that, too. Everybody besides Cartman.” 

“Well, Cartman ain’t your brother, is he?” 

“No, but he tells me more than you or Kevin have.” 

Kenny flicked his hair, blue eyes sodden to a misty gray. “Why don’tcha go after him, then? Ask him what it is that set him off.” 

“Fine, I will.” 

Karen caught the door on its downswing and caught Cartman down the hall. 

“Hey, Eric--” 

He turned around. “What?” 

He wasn’t much taller than her--maybe in a couple years, she might even be taller than him--but the irate line of his mouth and brow made her shrink back. “I, uh--I just--What made you mad?” 

His countenance broke. “Karen,” he sighed. 

She inhaled, broadening her shoulders. “Kenny did something, didn’t he? Something bad?” 

“Look, it’s...” 

“I’m not stupid, and I ain’t deaf. I know something’s going on. What is it?” 

“Don’t worry about--” 

She stomped forward. “Don’t you start that with me, too! You said you’d tell me the truth!” 

Cartman bent down, angry all over again. He cycled through emotions faster than racecar drivers could blaze a lap. “I also told you it’s not my fault if you don’t like the answer! The truth is you don’t want to know what’s going on. You don’t need to know.” 

“And why not? Because I’m a girl? Because I’m the youngest? I thought I wasn’t nothing but a _person_ to you--” 

“You _are_. You’re a person I admire. And that’s why I won’t tell you.” 

Karen sidestepped around him before he could walk away. “Fuck that! You’re a fucking hypocrite!” 

He shoved her aside. “I’d rather be a hypocrite than whatever else you’d think of me.” 

She dug her nails into her palms. “I was just beginning to like you!” 

“I don’t care,” Cartman sneered.

Karen watched him leave--leave her alone and uninformed, just like every other boy in her life--then sucked in a breath and held it till it burned her chest. 

God, she wanted a fucking cigarette. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you noticed, kenny injured his left (dominant) arm :( rip how will he paint


End file.
